


Calculated Risk

by jrdexex



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Banished Anora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jrdexex/pseuds/jrdexex
Summary: ...but boy, is Anora bad at math.Anora's made a lot of bad decisions in her life, but joining the Inquisition was possibly the worst.





	Calculated Risk

_ Anora Mac Tir, a queen banished from her homeland, now keeps a tenuous company with the Inquisition, as an ally in the fight against Corypheus. As the Inquisitor, Morrigan, and Solas discuss who should drink from the well of Sorrows, Anora makes a decision. _

 

In the end, Anora knew there were only two options. 

 

The day felt like a dream of death. The drums of the advancing army were deafening. The years had hardened her since the fateful Landsmeet, and although she remained a poised, well-spoken woman, she had focused on the martial arts with a ferocity she had lacked as queen. Those skills proved useful. She had kept forward, hanging at the edges of the Inquisitor's band, thinning out their enemies, with the Iron Bull and Krem, so the Inquisitor and a smaller, stealthier, group could forge onwards, evading many of Corypheus' enemies. 

 

It was perhaps by fate that she was nearest to the small band, fighting within earshot of the explosion. The dark, slippery grass, untouched by anyone for many years, is treacherously slick, and as she runs at break-neck speed towards the sound, one of her feet gives way. A piece of the thick, prickly, underbrush prevents a complete collapse, the fingers of its branches reaching through the small holes of her chainmail and trying to trap her, as a rogue Templar slashes at her head. She lets out a loud 'hah', that only added to the din around her, as she blocks the stroke with her arm guard and stabs with her other arm, getting the templar to dodge out of reach. Anora rips herself out of the bush and scrambles to the temple entrance, sprinting with the templar close at her heels. 

 

The sandstone walls of the temple break her out of the death screams of battle and into a horrible silence. The only sound is of magic. Anora has no words for the noise, but it reminds her of a heartbeat, bones snapping or the gurgle of healing energy dragging a mangled soldier back to life. It was Corepheus himself, blocking her path to the Inquisitor's party, and it seemed he was about to give them chase. His back was to her, and he had either not noticed her presence, or did not care. Seeing such a thing made her hands shake, and her stomach lurch like a sinking ship. He was almost twice as tall as she, red lyrium glowing, humming with an unnaturally bright light compared to the fading afternoon sunlight. Two smoking stone pillars stand in front of them, like dying torches. They lead across a lake, and towards two massive gold scaled doors. Tall Elven soldiers in armor she does not recognize lie dead near the bridge, but questioning them was last on Anora’s short list of priorities.

 

Her head suddenly aches, and her armor feels like leaden weights. She touches her face, wiping underneath her nose with her free right hand. She looks at her hard leather glove. With a dazed alarm, she looks and sniffs the red liquid on her fingertips. Her knees almost buckle beneath this sudden illness, but a fleeting thought forces her to look at the figure slowly, and straighten. Her fingers tighten on the sword hilt, and her right-hand joins her left, and she swings, aiming to cut off his head with a single stroke. 

 

The warden’s head topples off, like a rotting pulpy apple. 

 

Her vision blurs, swaying like the scarlet hips of a dancer, side to side. Soft chimes ring in her ears as the weight doubles under her knees and a wave of nausea rolls through her chest, tight like a woman churning a dough ball. 

 

“Anora! You just might want to look behind you!” Varric yells, breaking through her focus.

 

Anora doesn’t want to. Her fingers dig into the soft solid earth, but she turns her head ever so slightly, to see another body growing revitalized by Corepheus’ power. A terrible red blur, with cracking bones. 

 

She drags herself up and stumbles towards the long bridge.

 

"Dragon!" The sharp-eyed Inquisitor shouts. “Move! Move! Move!” They demand as they wildly point towards the sky. The former queen’s exhaustion recedes as the double threat sinks in and her focus sharpens into a deadly dagger pinpoint. Anora’s weak steps transform into a sprint.

 

Anora felt the shadow of the dragon before the brilliant flash of pain, which wiped out her already draining nausea. Cassandra and the Inquisitor’s hands drag her behind the doors before Solas and Morrigan slam them shut. Morrigan’s dark eyes give Anora a brief and unapproving cursory stare before turning and heading further in the temple. Tiredly, Anora wipes the uncomfortable stream of blood off of her face.

* * *

Anora sits, absorbing the pristine architecture. She sips the health potion and hopes the burns on her back, the dragon’s  _ gift _ would recede soon. She had little objection to taking the long route, the puzzles were in working order, and it gave her a chance to recover her strength and wit before a rematch with their enemies.

 

Varric watches them all from the distance, standing watch as the Inquisitor, eager Morrigan, and a quiet Solas and Cassandra, figure out the puzzles. 

 

The afternoon passes like a strange but pleasant dream for Anora, but soon enough the playful exploration fades as they once more confront the Templar leader. A grim enduring strength toughens her limbs and they grind the Corypheus’ minions into bloody corpses with the help of their mysteriously tall elven guides. 

* * *

 

“All of this is a bit beyond my expertise,” Varric says, as they stand before the well of sorrows, watching the fight between Morrigan, Abelas and their patient Inquisitor. “I don’t like being useless, but I try to stay in my lane with romance, adventure, and epics: current stuff, not history. Have any thoughts you’d like to share?”

 

Anora, having nothing to say, says nothing.

 

“Oh, come on now.” He prods, ”Fascinating character like you in the background? It’s a disgrace.”

 

“I don’t need to be the villain in another story.” She snaps, before gathering her temper, “Please, leave me out. I need no fame, and I would much prefer to never be of importance again,” She continues, with growing concern, “But Morrigan can’t have the well. She has her own agenda and the Inquisitor’s too valuable to risk.”

 

“You’re...volunteering.” Varric guesses hesitantly.

 

“...Seems so.”Anora’s voice cuts off like a snapped lock. Without another seconds hesitation, she dives into the pool.

 

The water is freezing, but Anora’s face feels aflame. 

 

_ This is a horrible idea! Solas should do his duty, to his people and us, not me! _

 

Without the reassuring pressure that her tightly tied heavy armor provided, she felt oddly buoyant, like her too-full blisters that were not-quite-healed near the charred skin. 

 

The water seems hungry, seeping eagerly into every open crevice of her body, voices whispering into her mind. 

 

_ I don’t deserve this. Please. I need your help. Solas should be the one-I’m not yours, I just couldn’t— _

 

**—Fen’Harel?** The elven voices cackle with laughter. They say something indistinct, that Anora guesses are a yes: for the water coils around her body, and the eager hunger to sink in her skin settles down into a charged, urgent silence. And then it shakes her like a doll, making her limbs twitch in a frenzied, drowning, flail. The pressure of its coils breaks her newly healed skin, and the blisters one by one. Anora screams, water flooding her mouth and she begins to struggle in earnest.

 

**T a k e Fen’Harel. Take Fen’Harel!** The voices command as the water keeps its crushing pressure. 

 

Anora cannot breathe. 

 

_ Please _ ! Her mind screams as water begins to fill her lungs. Anora cannot breathe. She wildly pushes against the water to the surface, body screaming from overexertion. Anora sees him, a pale face against the water, offering her a hand.

 

She  **t a k e s** it. Anora roughly drags him down in the water with her. 

* * *

 

“You’re alive, then.” The voice says from the darkness. Warm hands touch her shoulders, hauling her to an upright seated position. Her back complains, her broken blisters barely healed.  

 

Anora’s too exhausted to respond in the language that is not her own.

She struggles for long moments, to recognize the voice or the fast faint touch of hands. She cannot. 

 

Finally, she asks in a whisper, “Where am I?” Her hands grasp the soft springy, wet grass underneath her. They could not be in a cave. 

 

The voice asks, shocked, “What?”

 

“Where,” She croaks, “Am I? Please.” The darkness was absolute, and with only an almost-stranger there, she had no idea what was going on. She feels in the darkness, hoping that she could hold on to the other, to gain his help. 

 

“You have not moved since the wolf exploded in the well of sorrows. The great wolf slammed you against a wall. Your companions, thinking you were dead, and with the wrath of Solas to any who would touch you, left you here.”

 

“Then, why can I see nothing? Have you no torches to light the night?” She demands

 

Abelas, for Abelas he was, said nothing, for he had no answers for her.

It was sunset and the sky burned red.    
  



End file.
